


et daemones in nobis

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, F/M, Grimdark, Growing Up, also no one's related, i'm genuinely sorry for the shitty pretentious latin how do you title, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rose Lalonde moves to Houston when Dave is thirteen, and he pretty much doesn't give two shits until she vomits tentacles on the floor of the girl's bathroom. Then he kind of accidentally falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wow this started out as a oneshot about rose going grimdark in a non-sburb setting what happened
> 
> also i've been working on this for a ridiculously long time (read: upwards of three months) but my computer crashed and i lost the file and only managed to recover half of it and THEN i ragequit for like a month
> 
> i'm sorry

_The girl was a clever mouse, the boy was an old cat_   
_Diamonds are forever, but they were never told that_   
_He’d lay there beside her, awake for safekeeping_   
_While she’d ask questions to the river while she was sleeping._

_–“Lazarus Phenomenon,” Bike for Three!_

*#*#*

Rose Lalonde came to Houston when he was thirteen. He didn’t notice her more than he’d notice any other new kid—she acted just like them, complaining about the heat and the smog and whatever else when the teachers asked her what she thought of Texas, although admittedly she used longer words than Dave was used to hearing. For three months she was just that new girl with the black lipstick and the pastel headbands who sat next to him in math and doodled in her notes.

Then, near the end of the year, she fell asleep in the middle of class—not that he could blame her, but the teacher was stalking through the rows checking their work and he figured it would be a dick move to let her get stuck with a detention, so with a casual flick of his wrist he sent his pencil spinning expertly into her ribcage. She jerked awake, sending her notebook tumbling off her desk, and clapped her hand over her mouth as she sprinted for the door, her Mary Janes slapping against the tiled floor.

The teacher looked on with furrowed eyebrows. “Dave,” she said, “go and make sure she makes it to the bathroom, won’t you? I think the heat may have gotten to her.”

He sighed, trying to decide whether he wanted to deal with a puddle of vomit or another word problem about some lunatic who bought five hundred lightbulbs, but hauled himself out of his desk and trudged after Rose. He found her in the girls’ bathroom down the hall, retching into the toilet seat and whiter than a ghost.

“I think I need to go home,” she finally said.

He went back to the classroom long enough to get Rose’s stuff, and his own, because there were five minutes left of class and if it took less time than that to walk her to the nurse’s station he didn’t plan on coming back, anyway. He paused when they reached the doorway to the cafeteria. “Can you keep yourself from blowing chunks for ten seconds?” he asked, and when she nodded, he tested the door—it was unlocked—and darted inside. Technically it was against the school rules, but he stuffed a dollar from his pocket into the vending machine and punched the button for Sprite.

She gave him a grateful nod when he cracked it open and handed it to her. “I’ll pay you back,” she croaked, and that ended the conversation.

The nurse was busy taking care of a sixth grader with a bee stinger stuck in his hand, but one of the office attendants took one look at Rose and pulled up her phone number in the school’s records. There was no answer, so they made her lay down in one of the empty cots in the next room.

Dave slid the trash can across the room so it was next to her and then slumped into the nearest chair. There was only one class left, and he didn’t really feel like going to ELA, so he figured he might as well stay here.

Rose sat with her back propped against the wall and took delicate sips of her Sprite. Her lipstick left dark smears on the green plastic bottle.

She stared at him. Her eyes were a weird, dark blue, almost purple. “Why do you wear those sunglasses all the time?” she asked. “Isn’t that against the rules?”

He shrugged. “Light sensitive,” he said.

“Oh.” She pursed her lips and rolled her neck, and the collar of her shirt slipped a little to reveal angry red rings on her throat—

“The fuck are _those?”_ he demanded.

She jumped and yanked her collar up. “I don’t know,” she said.

Rose’s mom showed up ten minutes before the last bell, mumbling something about not hearing the phone ring over the vacuum cleaner, and after a brief discussion about make-up work they both left.

Monday, after Rose dropped her homework on the teacher’s desk, she slid into her seat without so much as glancing in Dave’s direction. Halfway through class he saw a pale hand slipping something onto his desk and wedging it under his textbook cover, quick as a flash.

He pulled out the dollar bill, folded in half, and a scrap of paper fluttered out. _Thanks,_ it read, in sparkly purple cursive.

He didn’t speak to Rose the rest of the year.

*#*#*

The first full day of high school, Dave had to start his day with P.E. in the hundred-degree Texas sun. Rose was in his class, _LALONDE_ printed across the back of her oversized gray t-shirt and her legs pasty under the baggy black shorts. She smirked at him when they got put on the same team for soccer, probably because she’d heard him whining about how much he hated this game and this class and this fucking day in general. They both hung around the goal—he just didn’t want to chase after a plush rainbow ball when it was hotter than Satan’s asscrack, but Rose seemed to genuinely enjoy playing defense. She tore down the field whenever someone from the opposite team got within thirty feet of the goalkeeper’s box, and she nearly trampled Egbert when he tripped in his haste to score a goal.

She was half-bent to help him up when she gasped and fell over, twitching, on the ground.

Dave’s eyes widened as he sprinted towards her. John had already taken off, yelling for the coach, and Rose was convulsing, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she mumbled something under her breath that sounded like _“Gorthych svulk’ath—“_

“Rose!” he yelled, and shook her, hard. She gasped, shuddered, and blinked, and her eyes came back into focus.

She barely had time to take a steadying breath before the coach was on them both, demanding, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Rose said evenly. “I just got a little dizzy. I’m fine.” She sat up to prove her point, but the coach was still giving her a skeptical look. She took a second to glance at Dave, almost pleadingly.

“Probably overheated,” he added. “She’s new here.”

The coach gave him a suspicious glare, then said, “Go sit in the shade, then. Strider, get her some water. And keep an eye on her.”

He did. She drank deeply, dripping condensation on her shirt, and rested her head against the stone wall.

“Don’t bother bullshitting me,” Dave said. “What just happened?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. My mother would probably call it dark magic.”

“Magic?” He raised an eyebrow. Rose struck him as too practical for that _Harry Potter_ shit.

Rose shook her head. “I don’t believe in it. Mom’s just crazy that way.” She took another sip. “It’s been happening since I was little, though.”

“Spouting gibberish?”

“Yes, and other things like that.”

“Like those marks on your neck. Last year.”

She nodded. “And sometimes I hear voices,” she admitted, not embarrassed in the slightest. “I’m fairly sure I’m some kind of certifiably insane, but of course my mother would rather believe in dark magic than a psychotic daughter. She’d sooner take me to an exorcist than a doctor.”

“That’s fucked up,” he decided.

Rose shook her head. “That’s just how she is.”

The coach yelled at them to get dressed, and he helped her to her feet before trudging to the locker room.

*#*#*

Freshman homecoming kind of sucked. He was sulking by himself—he hadn’t felt like asking anyone, and Rose was off dancing with John, and the lights were giving him a headache, and the music was shitty.

Honestly, he’d expected homecoming to be terrible from the moment two weeks ago when a girl he’d spoken to maybe twice cornered him at a football game, and, stammering and blushing while her gaggle of friends stood just far enough away that they could pretend they weren’t listening, had asked him to the dance. He’d agreed, with a shrug, and the group of girls had squealed with delight and dragged his new date off.

The next day, having escaped her escort, she’d found him at lunch and assured him that if he didn’t want to go with her, she was fine with it. They’d both walked away relieved. He could see her now, across the gym, dancing with a couple of her friends. At least she was having a good time.

Rose and John were holding each other’s shoulders and swaying halfheartedly, and John was laughing at whatever she’d just shouted over the music. Evidently he’d forgiven her for almost kicking him in the head a few weeks ago. Dave rubbed his eyes under his shades; ditching this whole clusterfuck was starting to look like a really good idea. Maybe his bro would actually pick up the phone if he called.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and Rose was standing over him, a little disheveled from all the dancing. “Do you want to go to the atrium?” she yelled.

He nodded and shouted back over the thrumming bass. “Sure.”

The atrium was quieter, and didn’t stink of sweaty teenagers, and also lacked the headache-inducing strobe lights. He sat on the floor so that he could rest his head against the cool glass of the window wall. John slid down to sit on his left, and Rose vanished around the corner, and returned seconds later with a plastic cup of lukewarm water.

“Fresh from the fountain,” she said as he downed it, and she settled on the floor and smoothed her dress out. “So I can personally guarantee none of the seniors have spiked it.”

“Doesn’t mean _you_ haven’t,” he mumbled into the glass, and she cackled. One of the supervising teachers, skulking in the corner, shot the three of them a dirty look, but they were all perfectly entitled to be out here and everyone knew it.

“This dance kind of sucks,” John announced. “Let’s leave.”

“Please,” Rose added.

“I’m game,” Dave finally added.

And that was how the three of them wound up on John’s living room floor at eleven pm, Rose with her black-and purple skirt hiked up to reveal her shorts, John with his matching tie loose around his neck, and Dave with his sneakers untied, playing video games.

“Who was the asshole that picked Rainbow Road again?” Dave asked as he bumped John’s shoulder, trying to startle him into crashing.

“You,” Rose said evenly. Out of the corner of his eye, Dave saw something launch on her screen, and the next second there was a beeping sound and he got pummeled by a blue shell.

“Motherfucker,” he muttered as she and John streaked past him.

“Sucks to suck,” John said cheerily, and sent Rose’s car spinning into oblivion with a shove. He crossed the finish line with a _whee!_ sound and much confetti.

Rose caught his eye, and with a nod, they both tackled John to the ground.

*#*#*

It only took two weeks of summer break for Dave to get bored. John was on vacation, his bro was locked up in his office “working,” and everyone else he knew was too busy catching sun at the pool to shut themselves up inside with him and his mutant eyeballs.

Well, almost everyone.

So he caught a bus and found himself knocking on Rose’s door at nine on a Saturday. A woman with hair the same shade of white blond as Rose’s answered the door, a martini glass in one hand and the other busy brushing off her white blouse. “Rose!” she called without hesitation. “It’s for you!”

She gestured for Dave to step inside, and he did. The house looked like he imagined the inside of Rose’s head would: all clean lines and neat compartments, a place for everything, but not everything in its place, and just messy enough to look lived in. Someone had been playing a violin upstairs, but the music cut off as soon as Rose’s mom yelled, and after a few seconds he saw Rose’s bare feet coming down the stairs. Even this early, on a Saturday, with no school, she was dressed in a white blouse like her mom’s and a black skirt, and her hair was tucked back in a violet headband. “Dave,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He snorted. “Do people really say that?”

“I’m not people,” she said simply. “Walk with me?”

He shrugged, and she jammed her feet into a pair of sandals sitting by the door. “There’s a nice ice cream place a few blocks over,” she said, and waved to her mother, who shut the door behind them with an amused expression.

The ice cream was good, and he savored the feel of it melting in his mouth while Rose sipped on her milkshake. Finally, she leaned across the table, and in a low voice she said “It’s been happening again.”

“The weird shit?”

She nodded. “Yes. ‘The weird shit.’ Excellently phrased, by the way.”

“What this time?”

Rose shuddered. “I think I was sleepwalking, and then I woke up in the basement covered in…honestly, I don’t know. I cleaned it up before my mom woke up, but I think she’s guessed that something happened.”

“Dude, you need to talk to someone about this,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “What a fantastic idea, Dave, I can’t believe I never thought of calling up the local supernatural activity specialist. I’ll get the phone book.”

“I’m being serious,” he said. “Passing out and talking gibberish is one thing. This sounds like seriously freaky shit.”

“Dave, _I’m_ being serious when I say that this isn’t the sort of thing you just Google a home remedy for,” she said. “I’ve tried. Whatever’s wrong with me—“

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “This isn’t anything _wrong_ with you. Having defective eyes that shrivel up in your head when you look at the sun would be something _wrong_ with you. This is _happening_ to you.”

She opened her mouth like she was going to argue, closed it, and stirred her milkshake. “Maybe you’re right,” she finally said.

“You could always try one of those freaky-ass bookstores downtown,” he said. “Probably find some stoned lunatic who happens to be an expert on dark magic or whatever.”

She snorted. “I’ll take that into consideration.” Then she shoved her chair back. “We should go. My house?”

“Only if you bust out your mom’s retro video games,” he said, and reached into his pocket for a dollar to shove in the tip jar. “I’m going to whoop your pasty ass at Galaga.”

“That goes without saying,” she assured him. “And watch who you’re calling _pasty,_ pasty.”

*#*#*

Rose and Dave usually liked to celebrate their birthdays together, since they were only a day apart.

Sophomore year, Dave’s birthday was a Friday and Rose’s fell on a Saturday, so on the afternoon of December fourth they were wandering uptown Houston looking for a place to treat themselves to lunch.

Rose eyed the shops and restaurants lining the streets. “Anything look good to you?”

He shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not hungry.”

“Me either.” She sat on a bench and patted the seat. He plunked down next to her. “We could find a movie to watch,” she suggested.

“We’re supposed to be at John’s in, like, an hour and a half,” he reminded her.

She sighed. “We could sit,” she finally said. “I think that’s the only viable option.”

“Sounds good.” He dug his iPod out of his pocket and offered her an earbud, which she took. He had just started scrolling through his playlist, trying to find a song she might like, when she leaned over and pecked his cheek.

“Happy birthday,” she said, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

*#*#*

The first day after winter break, she found him at his locker. “It happened again,” was all she said.

“Fuck.” He slammed the door shut and watched the metal rattle. “The sleepwalking?”

She nodded. “I wound up in the bathroom this time. And these,” she said, pulling up her sleeves, “were on my arms when I came to.”

They were red circles, angry and raised and vaguely familiar. “Were those on your neck that day in eighth grade?” he asked.

She nodded. “I think they’re tentacle marks,” she said.

“That’s fucking creepy.” He shrugged his backpack on. “You want a ride home?”

“Sure. I’ve probably missed the bus by now anyway.” She pulled her hair free of her collar and followed him to the student lot.

“Your house or mine?” he asked as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the crush of cars to clear a path.

“Actually,” she said as she buckled up, “do you remember when you said I should try one of those dark magic bookstores downtown?”

He frowned. “Traffic’s gonna be hell, Rosie.”

“I’ll buy you apple juice.”

“Deal.” He signaled and pulled out of the lot.

He parked on the curb, half an hour later, in front of a shop with blacked-out windows and charms hanging over the door. A battered sign with _WICCA’D_ painted in faded gold hung over the display window, which featured a variety of posters advertising various “magical services”.

_“Wicked?”_ Dave said. “What a shitty pun.”

“I’ve seen better,” Rose agreed. She slammed the passenger door shut and fed a handful of quarters to the parking meter.

The bell over the door gave a hollow clatter as they entered, but the pendulum inside had been removed, so it didn’t ring. The shop looked like it was empty, apart from the kid slouched behind the counter with his coat collar pulled up to hide the bottom part of his face. Dave vaguely recognized him from school. He gave them a disdainful glance over the top of a book titled _The Grimoire: A Complete Encyclopedia of Otherworldly Beasts._

Dave nearly jumped out of his shoes when a voice behind him said, “Can I be of assistance, my dear?”

It was a dumpy old lady, draped in a bunch of scarves and so much jewelry that Dave wondered how she’d snuck up on them without sounding like Santa Claus landing on the rooftop. Her coffee-stained smile gave him the creeps.

Rose stepped around him to face the lady. “Yes, actually,” she said, her voice steady, but she reached back to take Dave’s hand. He gave it a squeeze as she said, “I’ve been having a problem.”

The old lady made a thoughtful “hmm” noise, and squinted at Rose over the top of her reading glasses. “I can see that,” she said, and snapped her fingers. “Eridan, bring us your stool, please.”

The kid behind the counter sighed and hauled himself up. He glared at Dave as he dragged the stool across the room, letting two legs screech against the hardwood floor. Rose winced, and the sound made Dave feel like he needed to run his fingernails over his teeth, but the old lady wasn’t bothered. She just locked the door and flipped the sign to “closed”. “Sit,” she told Rose, “and jacket off.” Rose obeyed, and chucked her wadded-up coat at Dave, who caught it deftly.

“Shit,” Eridan said when he caught sight of Rose’s arms. “What have _you_ been messing with?”

“Language,” the old lady snapped, and grabbed one of Rose’s forearms for closer inspection. “Mmm,” she said, like the tentacle marks revealed some great secret. “I thought so. Close your eyes.”

Rose snorted, but she rolled her shoulders and shut her eyes. The old lady circled Rose’s stool, totally silent despite the dangly jewelry, which was really starting to freak Dave out. “Listen to me very closely,” she said. “Don’t respond. Only nod yes or no if I ask you a question. I want you to breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, in for three seconds and out for three seconds. Do you understand?”

He could see Rose rolling her eyes, but she nodded yes and took a deep breath.

“Good,” the lady said, still pacing. “Empty your mind. Focus on my voice alone. Nothing else can distract you. Clear?”

Rose nodded again, and Eridan, who was slouched against a bookshelf, sighed impatiently. He ran a hand through his purple-streaked hair and shot Dave a look like, _this is what I have to deal with._

“Think back to the night you received those marks on your arms. Do you remember what you dreamed?”

Rose shook her head no. “Think harder,” the lady snapped. “You aren’t trying. _What did you dream?”_

Rose’s next exhale was more of an angry puff, but she squirmed a little on her seat and scrunched her eyebrows. Dave watched her chew on the inside of her cheek. Then, without warning, her eyebrows shot up and she sat ramrod straight. Her eyes opened—but they were rolled back in her head, and she started spouting gibberish again, frantic and rushed, and then she pitched sideways out of the stool, and Dave lunged forward and barely caught her head. “Rose!” he yelled, and she rolled over and started vomiting, some dark, oily stuff that cascaded endlessly from her mouth.

_“Rose!”_ he yelled, and shook her as hard as he could, but she wasn’t snapping out of it and the stuff just kept coming from her mouth and oh god oh _god_ she was choking on it, she was suffocating on this stuff—

She stopped vomiting as suddenly as she had started and collapsed across his lap.

The old lady nodded calmly. “Just as I thought,” she said.

Eridan backed down the isle. “What was _that?”_ he demanded.

Dave glared at him. “I swear, Ampora, if you tell your stupid Dungeons and Dragons nerds about this—“

“Fuck off, Strider,” Eridan snapped back. “We have better things to talk about than your psychotic girlfriend—“

“She is _not_ psychotic,” the lady snarled. “She has been communing with the horrorterrors.”

“The _what?”_ Dave demanded as Eridan’s eyes widened and he yelled, “Holy shit, is she insane?”

She ignored Eridan, and instead turned to answer Dave. “The horrorterrors are ancient creatures, gods of the Furthest Ring of space. They do not rule our world, but they do commune with us through messengers such as your young lady there.”

“She’s not _my_ anything,” Dave said, “and I understood jack shit of what you just said.”

Eridan translated. “Big nasty tentacle things in space sometimes possess your girlfriend. But she’s probably okay.”

“It’s not possession and should never be confused as such. She simply—“

Rose groaned and sat up. “What happened?” she asked, and rubbed her eyes. “Oh. Oh, god. Headache.”

Dave looked down. The puddle of oily whatever-it-was had vanished. “You talked and then you puked and then you passed out. And now we’re _leaving.”_ He helped her to her feet and shot one last death glare at the old lady and Eridan as he unlocked the door and helped Rose to the car.

She collapsed into her seat and rubbed her forehead. “I remember—I remember her asking about my dreams, and then I thought I heard really loud screaming, like someone was angry—and then I don’t know what happened,” she admitted. “The next thing I knew you and that lady and Eridan were all yelling at each other and I was on the floor. Did she say anything?”

He threw the car into gear. “She talked about horrorterror somethings. It sounded like complete bullshit to me.”

He could only see her in his peripheral vision, but she seemed to get even paler. “Can you pull over?” she asked. Her voice sounded shaky.

He pulled off at the nearest park and helped her sit at a picnic table. She looked terrible, like she was going to pass out again. “My mom’s talked about horrorterrors before,” she said, and she didn’t elaborate beyond that, but he got the distinct feeling that they hadn’t been pleasant discussions. She shivered—he’d forgotten her coat in the car—and scooted across the bench so that they were squished side by side.

“I’m scared,” she finally mumbled into his shoulder.

“Shit, I’d be terrified,” he said, and but his arms around her. “Like, I-need-a-panic-room terrified. You’re rolling.”

“All those things my mom told me about,” she said. “The dark magic and—everything. It’s true, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. But you’ll get through it.”

“Not on my own, I won’t.” She sounded miserable.

“Fuck no.” He rubbed her arms. “That’s why I’m here.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains blatant references to sex, but nothing explicit. Also contains blatant references to my insane ladycrush on Lindsey Stirling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 1 am i'll probably regret this in the morning
> 
> also WHOA YOU GUYS i got such an insane response on part 1!!! whoa!!!! i love you all smooches and hugs for everyone
> 
> i would have had this done sooner but i kind of got distracted by playing LOTRO for the first time in like six months (the updates took away like half of my melee skills GRR)
> 
> so here! enjoy part two!

_I wanna ruin our friendship_   
_We should be lovers instead_   
_I don’t know how to say this_   
_‘Cause you’re really my dearest friend_

_\--“Jenny,” Studio Killers_

Dave couldn’t pin down exactly when making out with Rose Lalonde became a regular occurrence. He just knew that she had started—a while ago, probably the end of freshman year—dropping quick kisses on his cheek, and after a while he’d found himself smooching her forehead, or her hair, or her ear (mostly to piss her off, because she was ticklish) and then one day he’d been going over biology notes with her—the only subject he actually enjoyed—and she’d planted one on his mouth. It wasn’t his first kiss by a long shot, and he doubted it was hers, but it was certainly one of the better kisses he’d experienced. Rose tasted like licorice and waxy lipstick and the white cheddar popcorn she’d had for lunch.

When he’d pulled away, she’d scraped some lipstick off the corner of his mouth. “That was fun,” she’d said.

“Yeah,” he’d said. “Should do it again sometime.”

They hadn’t finished reviewing their biology notes that night, because they’d been too busy making out on his couch, Rose in his lap and her fingers in his hair. He hadn’t even minded when she’d pulled his shades off, because Bro always kept the apartment pretty dark anyway. She’d just glanced at his eyes, mumbled “Pretty,” and attacked his mouth again—there was no other way of putting it—and they’d only stopped when they were interrupted by Rose’s phone ringing in her backpack.

“So, are you two dating?” John had asked. He was in the shotgun seat, and after Rose had climbed over the pile of junk in the back—CD cases, notebooks and loose papers, jackets and shoes—and extracted herself from the car, she’d leaned in through Dave’s open window and given him a (relatively, for her) chaste kiss.

Dave shrugged, half focused on the clog of traffic between him and John’s house and half on the shitload of studying that was probably not going to get done while they were there. It wasn’t like his bro would care if he bombed finals. “Dunno,” he said. “Maybe.”

_“Maybe?”_ John repeated. “How do you not know if you’re dating someone?”

“What’s the deal with you and Vriska?” he drawled, and glanced over to see John blushing. “Oh, fuck off, Dave,” he said.

“Exactly,” Dave said as he swung into John’s driveway.

At the beginning of junior year, Dave still didn’t have an answer. He’d spent his summer shut up in houses—his, John’s, Rose’s—playing video games and watching terrible movies with John, playing video games and making out with Rose. When he was over at Rose’s house she’d dim the lights enough that he could take his shades off, and she’d turn down the brightness on the TV and they’d play retro-style arcade games until midnight. John joined them several times—he was always impeccably polite to Rose’s mom, even when she answered the door with a wine bottle in one hand and a wizard porn novel in the other, and he loved playing the glossy grand piano in Rose’s living room. She said it was just as well, since that was the only use it ever got. Dave knew that John was downright envious—the only piano at his house was a battered old upright that had been his grandma’s, with chipped and stained keys, and the upper octave was eternally out of tune.

Some nights all three of them would be at John’s house, and they’d drag every pillow and blanket in the house out onto the terrace, and play card games by the light of the streetlamp until four in the morning, when John would fall asleep with his glasses still on. Dave would take them off and set them on the table in the doorway, and drift off with Rose under his arm. They’d wake up when the sun started baking them, just long enough to drag everything back inside and pass out again in the air conditioning until one in the afternoon. Rose would make frozen pizza—she didn’t trust John or Dave within a foot of the oven—and they’d eat on the living room floor.

Dave still wasn’t sure if late-night makeouts and frozen pizza qualified as “dating”, but he didn’t find the issue pressing, so he didn’t bring it up with Rose.

Until a Tuesday afternoon when the most important thing on Dave’s mind should have been his Calc notes but actually ended up being Rose’s cool fingers brushing against his lips while she fed him gummy worms, and she looked up from her Creative Writing homework and said, “John asked me today if we were—how did he put it?—‘like, _dating_ dating, for real’.” She widened her eyes in her best Egbert impression, which was admittedly pretty impressive.

“What’d you tell him?” he asked, and held out a worm for her to bite the red end off of. He ate the rest himself; she hated the lemon flavored ones.

“I said yes.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I trust the answer doesn’t bother you?”

“Nah,” he assured her, and doodled a shitty cartoon dragon on the corner of her paper. “So do you understand this number business? ‘Cause I’m trying, really, but I swear the teacher opens his mouth and I fall asleep. He probably uses chloroform as breath freshener or something.”

Rose smirked and set aside her notebook, half-drawn dragon and all. “Good thing you’ve mastered the delicate art of sleeping upright while snoring like a chainsaw, then,” she said. “Pay attention to the teacher, now. Professor Lalonde has no patience for distracted students.”

_“Really,”_ he drawled, and trailed a hand up her thigh. She swatted his fingers aside with a smile.

*#*#*

Dave drifted underwater, weightless, eyes closed, unsure if he was sinking or floating, or even how long he’d been under. Long enough for his lungs to protest. He didn’t try to move.

He felt hands grasp his elbows, press them against his ears, and then he was moving, someone was pulling him up, and he broke the surface with a gasp.

“Jesus dick, man,” John coughed in his ear. “You sink like a stone.”

“You callin’ me fat, Egbert?” he asked as he blinked the poolwater out of his eyes.

“Yes,” John said, and someone swam alongside them and shoved a rescue tube under John’s arms, carefully avoiding Dave’s spine. “Hurry up, Fef, I’m dying over here,” John added.

“Oh, hush!” Feferi said, and vanished under the water next to Dave’s hips; a moment later he felt a second tube being shoved under his knees and his legs floated neatly to the surface.

John kicked them both closed to the wall, where Feferi reappeared and wrestled a backboard underneath Dave. John put the tube supporting his arms under the head of the board, and clung to the side, resting.

“So,” he said, casually, “are you and Rose going to prom?”

“Dunno,” he admitted. “I haven’t thought about it.”

Feferi clung to the side of the backboard to keep it steady. “Oh, you should!” she exclaimed. “You two look so _cute_ together, and prom’s going to be so much fun anyway, plus I bet you look dashing in a suit.”

Feferi was a pretty Indian girl, famous for her huge mess of hair—currently in a sopping braid—and her perpetual state of glee, evident in the way her eyes gleamed even through her pink goggles. She also, apparently, had a shitty taste in guys, because last Dave had heard she had been dating the greasy douchebag from the weird magic bookstore downtown.

“Yeah, maybe,” he said.

“Do it,” John insisted. “Hey, Fef, can I be secondary this time? My arms are tired.”

“Sure!” she said, the vowel weirdly drawn out.

“Okay, Dave, go die again,” John ordered. “And ask Rose to prom!”

“In that order?” Dave drawled, and promptly choked on water as John flipped the backboard over with a laugh.

*#*#*

Prom night, Dave picked Rose up at her house in his legendary shitmobile, only pausing to retrieve her corsage from the passenger seat before he was knocking on her door. She answered almost immediately, wrapped neatly in a shawl over her dress, and ushered him out the door before her mother could insist on pictures. As they both climbed in the car, he had a weird flashback to the time he’d taken her to one of his Bro’s Famous Rich Asshole parties, but this time instead of stopping at a five-star hotel to party on the rooftop, they pulled into a Red Lobster parking lot to meet up with John and Vriska.

John and Vriska were already working their way through a basket of cheddar bay biscuits, trying not to spill crumbs on their matching blue outfits, when Rose and Dave slid into the booth opposite. Rose dropped her shawl and started to nibble on a biscuit, when John looked up and said, “Hey! Oh, cool dress, Rose, the sleeve is really neat—“ and then went back to eating.

Dave glanced over. Black translucent fabric covered both of her arms to the elbow, and on her left shoulder there was a tentacle pattern visible underneath that didn’t move with the fabric, but rather with her skin. When Dave casually slung an arm around her, sharp lines of freezing cold bit into his hand wherever his skin touched the pattern. Rose shrugged him off. “Don’t worry about it,” she murmured in his ear. “I’ll tell you later.”

By the time they reached the dance, her tattoo was not at the forefront of his mind, because he was too busy trying not to stare at the slit up her dress that left little of her leg to the imagination. Instead, he rested his hand on the table, and she rested her hand on his, and they both had a shouted conversation with John over the throbbing bass. Dave took one sip of the punch and declared that it had been spiked. Rose drank it anyway.

By after-prom, she’d ditched her dress in the backseat in favor of running shorts and a t-shirt. Vriska had traded her gown for jeans, and John and Dave had loosened their ties and untucked their shirts, and all four of them loaded up at the taco bar, and Rose sat with one leg slung over Dave’s. He could feel the radiating heat through her tights, flesh-colored under her shorts.

By the time they stumbled into his apartment at four in the morning, her shorts were well on their way down her legs, and the only reason they hadn’t reached the floor yet was because she had her thighs clamped firmly around Dave’s hips while she ravished his mouth. He staggered blindly to his room and almost tripped over his bed, but Rose steadied them both with her feet and worked at loosening the tie around his neck that she’d spent all evening fixing. She whipped it off his neck and tossed it at his desk, and he kicked his shoes off while he tugged at the laces of her sneakers, and she worked his belt loose and he did the least sexy shimmy he was capable of to escape his slacks.

They continued stumbling and stripping until he was on his back and Rose was straddling his hips, wearing nothing but her shirt and her tights—he’d ripped a hole in them, _oops—_ and he was down to his own undershirt and boxers and also in a lavender perfume and Rose’s tongue-induced haze, and it took until she started rocking impatiently against his hips for him to realize that she was really _really_ drunk. “Rose,” he gasped while her teeth were busy working his neck, “nn—“ and then her mouth was on his and he could taste the bitter sting of alcohol on her breath. His hands moved reflexively to cup the back of her head, she loved it when he did that, and took the opportunity to seize her hair and pull her face away from his.

“Rose,” he said, as steadily as he could manage. “You’re drunk.”

“Don’ care,” she slurred, and yanked his hands away to pin his wrists above his head and went back to kissing him.

He tensed and flipped over, pinning Rose’s legs underneath his own and trapping her forearms under his elbows; he used his hands to hold her head down. “I am not fucking you when you’re sloshed,” he said. She squirmed, but she was too woozy to put up a proper fight, so she settled for pouting and muttering “Spoilsport.”

“Pretty much,” he agreed, and rolled so that they were laying side by side. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she wiggled out of her ruined tights, and he coaxed her back into her shorts (“C’mon, Bro’s probably gonna come busting in here at the asscrack of dawn, like hell you want him to catch you in your tighty whities”—not that her lacy black undies even vaguely resembled “tighy whities”) and kissed her lazily until they fell asleep with their legs tangled under the covers.

Even if he had to spend five minutes the next morning scrubbing lipstick off his chin while Rose nursed black coffee and a hangover, well, he wasn’t complaining.  

*#*#*

Sleeping with Rose became a pretty commonplace thing, in both senses of the phrase. Usually if sex was on the agenda they’d go to his place—Rose’s mom had the unnerving habit of knocking on the door “just to check in” the instant Rose got her hand down his pants, whereas Bro was almost never home, and didn’t bother them when he was. In fact, the only words Bro had on the subject were uttered over a dinner of delivery pizza and orange soda, when he’d turned to Dave and said, “Look, kid. You’re old enough that you can pretty much do whatever the fuck you want about your sex life. Just don’t do anything dumb, a’ight?” and Dave had nodded and that had been that, case closed, file sealed with wax or a padlock or something, court dismissed to go home and party.

Cuddling-sleeping mainly happened at Rose’s house—partially because her pile of knitted miscellany was perfect for making a nest in front of the television, partially because when they inevitably fell asleep in front of a movie Rose’s mom would wake them up with fresh waffles. John still joined them sometimes, and usually brought Jade, his new buddy from science club who’d just moved in from fuck-knew-where and could somehow perform the physical feat of glomping all three of them at once. Jade was a little hands-on for Dave’s tastes (Rose barely repressed a smirk when he voiced this complaint), and she had the unnerving ability to cut straight through his bullshit faster than Rose with a katana made of diamond-edged self-taught psychology, but he liked her all the better for that.

He also liked her because she presented a serious challenge as an opponent in Call of Duty, but that was beside the point.

Summer passed in a haze of lazy pleasure, nights spent with Rose sleeping on Dave’s bare chest, both of them sticky with sweat, and afternoons at John’s house while his dad took the opportunity to make up a metric fuckton of pastries. There was one disastrous weekend wherein Jade convinced everyone to go camping, and John had almost had to go to the hospital after the smoke from the campfire sent him into an asthma attack, and then the trip got cut short when they _did_ end up going to the hospital after Dave impaled his foot on a glass shard. It sucked that he couldn’t go do any photoshoots for a month after that, but it was almost worth it to see Rose’s face when he asked her if she would wear a sexy nurse’s uniform for him.

Rose did come over to his apartment to read to him while he was homebound, usually from the trashiest romances she could find in her house. She enjoyed swooning across his lap whenever the main characters were particularly overwhelmed with lust. Other times she’d bring her violin and play for him, and he’d record and remix and play it back, and she’d casually suggest that maybe he send it to Jade, who revamped it with some piano tunes she’d ganked from John, and she’d send it back to Dave sounding ten times better.

Rose and Dave fell asleep on his bed listening to a playlist of their group remixes, her hands tangled in his hair and his hand resting on the small of her back, and he didn’t wake until the pressure of her body against his vanished, and there was a small thud and a crash as she stumbled about his room.

“Christ,” he grumbled, and glanced at the clock. “Rose, it’s ass o’ clock, if you gotta pee at least turn on a light so you don’t wake the whole goddamned building up.”

There was just another thump, and then the sound of a small avalanche of books toppling off a shelf. He groaned and sat up.

Rose was clinging to his bookshelf, eyes rolled back in her head, gleaming white as she glared at him over her shoulder. She turned to face him.

Her skin looked ashy gray in the streetlight, just far enough off from her normal skin tone to be noticeable. Her fingers clenched and unclenched at her side, and when she flexed the fingers still clinging to the shelf he heard the sound of splintering wood.

He tensed. “C’mon, Rosalie. Don’t do this now.”

He blinked and she was standing in front of him—fast as his flashstepping, maybe faster. The whoosh of air that accompanied her reeked of brine and rotten seaweed and dead fish. He gagged, and she just cocked her head and deadpanned, _“G’lath syur’ath.”_

“Yeah, I _know_ that’s not your name,” he snapped. “Her name. Whatever. Look, mister space tentacle monster or whoever the fuck, I realize that Rose has a rockin’ bod but I think we’d all be a lot happier if you’d give it back to her.”

Rose huffed and crossed her arms. She was wearing one of his shirts, too big on her, and the neck slipped to display her tentacle tattoo, which was twisting and coiling down her bicep.

“It was a compliment, for fuck’s sake,” he said. “Look, just—how about you lay down and go back to sleep.”

She turned and started stalking towards his bedroom door.

“Hey, no, don’t— _Jesus dick—“_ He’d tried to stand on his still-bandaged foot, and fell back on the bed, cursing. She turned back, eyebrows scrunched, in concern or idle curiosity he couldn’t tell, but she glided back until she was standing in front of him again. Cautiously, he reached out, and when she didn’t stop him he put a hand on either side of her face.

Her skin was burning cold, the same as her tattoo the first time he’d touched it, but this observation was relegated to the back burner when his touch evidently triggered her collapse. She crumpled to the floor, convulsing and shrieking, and he slid to the floor in front of her to put his torso between her head and the exposed steel of his bedframe—first rule of treating seizure patients: _cushion the head, do not attempt to restrain—_ and then the door slammed open and Bro hit the lights, blinking, shades forgotten. Rose flinched away from the sudden brightness, flung herself sideways onto the floor, and her seizes reduced themselves to shudders and gasps, and she moaned into the carpet.

“Holy shit,” Bro finally managed.

Dave felt Rose stiffen in his lap, and then she scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door—straight past Bro—and Dave tried to haul himself up, cursed loudly, and then Bro yanked him up by his elbows and shoved a pair of crutches at him, and Dave hobbled toward the bathroom as fast as he could. The light was on, and Rose was hunched over the toilet, heaving pearly white fish eggs into the bowl.

Dave perched on the edge of the bathtub and reached over to pull her hair back, and Rose hurled again, black sludge mixing with the little white pearls, and the whole disgusting slurry smelled of saltwater, and Bro was reaching for his phone and saying, “I’m gonna call an ambulance—“

“Nuh,” Rose choked out. “No. Don’t.” She spit into the toilet and sat up shakily.

Dave could feel Bro staring at him as Rose fumbled for a cup on the counter and filled it with lukewarm water from the sink. He very pointedly did _not_ meet Bro’s gaze as Rose swished tapwater in her mouth, spit again, then slammed down the toilet lid and flushed. He just reached out to squeeze Rose’s shoulder as she leaned back against the tub, moaning, and rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth.

Dave finally looked up, and Bro had his arms crossed, face tensed in a way that meant he was either mad or would be soon. “You two’ve got ten seconds to convince me that I shouldn’t call your mom and the hospital, and you’d better have _damn_ good arguments because I didn’t want to get up at the asscrack of dawn to watch a minor seize up and vomit all over my bathroom. Go.”

“My mother already knows,” Rose said evenly. “I’ve been having episodes like this since I was six. I childishly assumed that refusing to tell her outright would keep such instances from her knowledge. I decided to inform her of my predicament after an instance in a bookstore sophomore year—Dave was present and can tell you any details—and she assured me that she already knew and had been working on finding a cure for my problem.”

Bro’s jaw was still clenched, and his orange eyes were narrowed, so Dave added hastily, “Plus, calling an ambulance would do absolute fuckall. I mean, what would a doctor even say, _oh huh you vomited tentacles and shit, not sure I can help with that, drink plenty of fluids and come back if blood starts seeping from your walls?_ There’s no point.”

“Sending me to a doctor will do nothing but rack up an exorbitant and unnecessary bill,” Rose agreed. “I’ll be fine, Mr. Strider. I promise.”

Dave couldn’t help but think that that was kind of a hasty promise to be making, but Bro just grunted unhappily at Rose’s insistence of calling him _Mr. Strider_ and left them with a parting glare.

Rose groaned again and slumped against Dave’s leg. “That was awful,” she stated.

“Shit, really?”

“Yes. Did…did you call me _Rosalie?”_

“Yep. You act enough like a vampire.”

“Rosalie Lalonde. What a godawful mouthful of a name that would be.”

Dave worked his fingers into her hair and leaned against the bathroom wall, and managed to ignore his foot cramping on the cold tile floor for the rest of the night.

*#*#*

Senior year started, and the time that Rose and Dave had spent studying for the ACT the year before was now being spent searching for schools, comparing this tuition with one from a nicer campus and oh, this place’s program is ranked higher than this place’s. Study  guides were replaced with scholarship forms—neither of them strictly needed scholarships; Bro was neck-deep in a combination of generous inheritance and porn empire profit, and while Dave wasn’t sure where on the wealth scale the Lalonde family measured, it was definitely somewhere between “I’m trying to apologize for embarrassing you in front of your aristocratic uncle so here’s a new car” and “Sweetie I know you haven’t been sleeping well so I got you a mattress stuffed with hundred dollar bills”. But he knew that Rose was too proud to let her mother buy her way through college, and Dave squirmed at the thought of relying on Bro to pay ridiculous sums of money for his education.

That was assuming that an education was on the agenda for the next few years, because Dave had no idea what he wanted to do. Rose had suggested music, naturally, and Dave seriously considered it because it made sense, but—he didn’t think he wanted to spend his life attached to his turntables. He’d idly considered cinema, but again, it just didn’t feel like something he wanted to _do._ Maybe photography, he told Rose. She didn’t press the issue, just continued to have verbal debates with herself over whether or not she wanted to double major. Personally Dave thought that the first semester of senior year was a little early to be worrying about college majors.

But the semester came and went, and Rose was accepted to the University of Iowa with an academic scholarship, and neither she nor Bro asked him about his own unsent applications, for which Dave was grateful.

Dave started part-timing at a local history museum, photographing new accessions for their collections. It wasn’t the most exciting job, but the hours were good and it payed decently, and after a few weeks he could tell how old a rug was within five years just by glancing at it.

December rolled around, and Rose and Dave took a weekend off from studying for finals to have a joint birthday celebration. In years past, neither had bothered to keep birthday presents a secret, but Dave hadn’t heard a peep from Rose about what she was getting him and he was not going to breathe a word about her gift. Friday night’s dinner was at John’s house, because his dad was not going to pass up a chance to bake a cake, and attended by Rose’s mom, a reluctant Bro, and Jade, whose birthday was a mere two days before Dave’s. Rose, Jade and Dave were all forced to wear cheap cardboard party hats through the whole meal, and were all squished at the head of the Egbert dining table, which resulted in a lot of elbow-on-ribcage collisions. Dessert was a three-tier cake in a gaudy mix of their favorite colors: red for Dave, lilac for Rose, and an eye-burningly bright lime green for Jade. Presents were exchanged. Dave received a new camera from Rose, headphones from Jade (which she’d apparently built herself and which produced the best quality sound he’d ever heard) and a leather wallet from John—“You’re an adult now, Dave!”—which he unfolded to reveal a gift certificate to a record store downtown.

Jade received a hand-knitted Squiddles plushie from Rose—a mutual love of theirs that Dave found more the creepy—and yet another wallet from John, this time containing a slip of paper informing her of her reservation at a summer engineering program, signed by both John and Dave. She screeched and hugged the three of them with enough vigor to realign Dave’s spine.

Rose was presented with a book of sheet music from John, which earned him a kiss on the cheek and a promise of duets in the future. “No wallet?” she quipped, and John laughed and produced a fuzzy pink Squiddles coin purse. Rose stowed it reverently in her bag with a promise to use it until it fell apart.

She squinted at the tag on the single box she was given, signed by her mother, Jade, and Dave, then raised an eyebrow curiously and peeled the tape away with great care. Jade squirmed in her seat as Rose took a great deal of time unfolding the wrapping paper and setting it aside. Rose smirked at Jade as she carefully aligned her fingers on the white lid of the box and removed it by inches. She set the lid aside, careful not to smush the wrapping paper, then gently unfolded the tissue inside—

And her jaw dropped.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, almost reverentially, as she ghosted her fingers over the glossy violin case. “Oh my _god.”_

“It was Dave’s idea!” Jade chirped. “Your mom and I pitched in, and look—John got you Lindsey Stirling’s sheet music, and I ripped her back tracks onto that disc there, the book comes with an accompaniment CD but they’re not the _same._ And—“ Whatever she was going to say got cut off when Rose hugged Jade forcefully, burying Jade’s face in her own neck.

Jade finally wrestled free, and Rose turned and flung herself on Dave. “How dare you,” she whispered. “I am _never_ going to top this.”

“You haven’t even opened the case, for all you know we stuffed it with used toilet paper,” he said, and she punched his shoulder and turned to undo the gleaming silver latches. “Seriously though, your old one is pretty much trashed, haven’t you had the damn thing since first grade or something? High time you got a replacement,” he prattled on, until Rose waved a hand at him to shut him up.

Her mouth dropped open again when she opened the case, and she appeared to be totally speechless while she fingered the strings of the gleaming violin. “Roth,” she finally managed. “But this is—it’s beautiful,” she said.

“By the way, Jade and I expect full recording privileges,” he said.

Rose’s mom had remained silent through the whole ordeal, a little smile on her face, and while John and Jade helped Bro and Dad clear the dishes, Rose carefully tuned her new instrument right there on the dining room table. Dave fiddled with his new headphones and only removed them when Rose tucked the violin under her chin and picked up the bow.

The tune she played was childishly simple, but she played it well. It was also extremely short, and when she set the violin in its case again Rose’s mom smiled a little wider and said, “That was the first song I ever taught you.”

“I know,” Rose said. She shut the case and tucked it, along with the sheet music, back into the box.

Dave spent the next day at Rose’s house and laid on her bedroom floor while he played with the settings on his new camera. Rose sat on her bed and played her violin, and he managed to snap a few shots of her unawares before she caught on and slid down to the floor, where she _thoroughly_ distracted him. He printed his favorite shot. She was curled around the violin, her head tilted in, and the afternoon sunlight had filtered through the window behind her and illuminated her platinum hair and her white blouse, had silhouetted her profile. He toyed with the idea of giving a print to her as a Christmas gift, but decided eventually to keep that one for himself.

*#*#*

The school year passed in a blur of paperwork and assemblies and nights spent on the phone while Rose gasped and choked into the receiver, trying to suppress whatever creature was fighting her for control from the inside out. Phone call number fifty-seven was the night before graduation, and Rose turned up the next day looking as put-together as ever, and Dave sweated his way through the ceremony while making faces at Jade. Afterwards he and Jade and Rose all went to John’s house, and they made pizza and played card games until nearly five in the morning—neither John nor Jade had ever played mou before, and both Dave and Rose delighted in crushing them round after round while ignoring cries of “This isn’t fair!” (“Penalty for talking,” Rose had said, again and again, and slipped them both a dozen extra cards before they finally got the hint.) Eventually they’d called it quits after John had penalized Dave three times for “failure to thank the dealer properly, asshole,” and Dave had finally grabbed Rose by the waist and mashed her mouth against his, and they’d kissed so long that Jade had flung her stack of cards at them with a shriek of “Delay of game, _geez!”_

Summer was spent listening to John and Jade and Rose talk excitedly about dorms and furniture and roommates. Dave, upon questioning, had finally shrugged and announced that he was taking a couple semesters off to travel. He wasn’t sure where he wanted to go yet, but all John said was “Bring back tons of pictures!”

Rose would be leaving for school the first day of August. They didn’t discuss it, and if Dave got a little clingy, invited her to stay the night more often than ever, she had the good grace not to mention it. Dave, meanwhile, spent July nights memorizing the feel of her bare skin next to his, sweat-slick and warm, and the way her head fit under his chin, and the lavender smell of her shampoo, and the way she hummed along to whatever song was playing on his iPod as they stargazed out his bedroom window from under a single, too-hot sheet.

July 31st, he and John and Jade spent the day at Rose’s house, shoving her college-bound belongings into boxes and bags. The house was raucously loud, as Jade had decided to diffuse the atmosphere by initiating a “Happy Birthday Harry Potter” party, to be held simultaneously with a “Get Rose’s Shit Done” party. Store-bought cookies and warm lemonade were consumed throughout the day.

Rose asked Dave to stay over that night, and she locked her bedroom door and sucked at his skin hard enough to leave bruises that would last him a week. He clung to her and traced the ridge of her spine with his fingertips and stifled his moans in her shoulder.

John and Jade reappeared the next morning, and the four of them loaded Rose’s belongings into the back of her mother’s SUV. The packing was going too quickly, and by noon, when they took a break for lunch, there was a frighteningly small stack of boxes. Dave’s gaze was drawn to them the same way a corpse drew everyone’s gaze at a funeral. Rose shoveled potato salad into her mouth with one hand and squeezed his fingers under the table with the other.

They loaded the last box at one in the afternoon. Dave slammed the trunk shut, and Jade flung herself on Rose, and John jumped on both of them, and Rose poked her head out of the whole mess to say, “Dave, if you don’t get your ass in on this group hug I will be personally offended.”

He got his ass in on the group hug.

John and Jade said their goodbyes—John’s was a little shaky—and then vanished back inside to triple check that nothing was getting left behind.

Dave faced Rose and shoved his hands in his pockets. She looked beautifully unkempt, with ruffled hair and her purple t-shirt threatening to untuck itself from her faded cutoffs. Her toes were dirty in her flip-flops.

“Miss you,” he mumbled.

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I’ll miss you too. Don’t be a stranger. I _do_ have a cell phone.”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look—take care of yourself, okay? And, I guess, call me or text me or something if…”

“If  ‘the weird shit’ happens?” she offered.

“’The weird shit’,” he echoed. “Excellently phrased.”

She huffed out a breath, and finally murmured, “You asshole,” and closed the gap with a step. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. Not quite a kiss, but as much as he could handle.

John and Jade reappeared, and Rose’s mom jangled her car keys, and Dave stepped away. Rose stepped into the passenger seat, slammed the door behind her, and rolled her window down to wave back as her mom peeled out of the gravel driveway and vanished down the street.

John and Jade and Dave stood in the driveway in silence for another minute. Then Dave sighed. “You want a ride?” he asked, turning to John, who nodded.

They didn’t speak on the drive to John’s house. Only when Dave had pulled up to the curb did John rest his head on the window, and finally say, “Growing up sucks.”

“No kidding,” Dave said. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, maybe you can help me with _my_ packing,” John said, and Dave gave a little grunt and John vanished into his own house.

That night, Dave’s phone buzzed next to his head while he lay in bed counting the ceiling tiles.

**_From: Rose Lalonde_ **

_I’m all moved in. My roommate Kanaya seems nice. She said she would like to come back and meet you over break, assuming you’re still in town._

_idk where ill be by then but meeting your roomie would be pretty bitchin_

_She knows about the horrorterrors too. She’s very understanding of my situation._

He smiled.

_so youre in good hands glad to know that_

_I miss you, Dave. Keep in touch. Goodnight. <3_

_yeah you too_

_night_

_< 3_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. katie has informed me that the only acceptable title for momlonde's wizard porn novel is _Hairy Frotter and the Sorcerers Bone_.
> 
> 2\. Lindsey Stirling is an actual violinist who actually plays a Roth violin and actually sells sheet music and i am actually in love with her if you couldn't tell so you should probably look her up. yeah.
> 
> 3\. i belatedly apologize for the horrid mischaracterization that took place in this work; i've been told that i have a Riordan-esque writing style and apparently Rick Riordan does not lend himself well to the inner workings of Dave Strider's mind but i tried.
> 
> 4\. thank you so much for reading!!!

**Author's Note:**

> wow did you really read all of that you are a trooper
> 
> i am toying with the idea of an epilogue about adulthood but i make no promises
> 
> constructive crit is more than welcome! also thank you for reading :)


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